There's a Reason I Listen to Alanis Morissette. And It's Not Because of Her Stellar Fashion Choices.

As much as I love myself (because really, who doesn't?) (love themselves, I mean) (well, or me, because I'm awesome) I also am my own harshest critic. No, really. I may not always let people know just how much I judge myself, but I do. It's far easier for me to see myself in a negative light than in a positive. Thus the self-deprecating humor. You know, make fun of myself before other people do, because then it hurts less? Yeah, I'm special like that.

(You see what I just did? Yep. Slammed myself in a joking way. Jeez, I can't help but do it even when I'm talking about how I do it.)

Sometimes the humor fails me. Then I just get angsty. Let me tell you, it's a real riot walking around with an inner teenager, especially one like mine. My inner teenager is not the bubbly cheerleader who loves trips to the mall and texting all her BFFs about the cute guy she saw at Forever 21. Oh no. Mine dresses in black with black eyeliner and mopes about in the corner and writes dark poetry about the horror of existence in a world of pain and anguish and bubbly cheerleaders.

Okay, fine, I've also been known to hang out at the mall with friends and text BFFs about guys, such as the cute policeman who totally gave me a major break this summer on not having renewed my registration for, oh, seven months; or the hot mechanic who changed my oil and replaced my sway bar links this weekend. But then my inner teenager has to hate ME, so it gets complicated.

I never said I was a simple person. I come with fine print. People just keep forgetting to read my manual.

Heck, I wish I could find my manual. Maybe then I could figure out how to run my own head.

Crap. Where was I going with this post? Oh right! Harshest critic. Angst. Too complicated for my own good. Fun stuff. Not entirely sure why I'm spewing this, but hey. Whatever. You can just stop reading if it's too emo for you.

Except now I'm panicking that you're really leaving my blog because AND THIS IS KIND OF THE WHOLE POINT OF THIS STUPID THING I have abandonment issues. And I've been realizing lately, as I've been navigating the ridiculous self-designed maze of my own mind (map not included), that I have a nasty habit of never fully giving myself to those I love. Deep down, you see, I don't really think I'm good enough to keep people around. So I have to protect myself from the inevitable. Friends, family, significant others, my own children...it doesn't seem to matter who the person is, there is always a part of my heart, a part of ME, that I hold back in reserve. There's always an unwillingness to risk myself fully in a relationship, because in the back of my mind a voice is always whispering They always end up leaving. One way or another, you will lose this person. He or she will leave you, will walk away, will break your heart if you give it all.

It's a sobering realization to have. It also explains certain behaviors. For example, my tendency to NOT write my parents much when they're overseas. Oh, they get my blog, I tell myself (which is a handy excuse these days but doesn't do much to justify the previous thirteen years). My mother will write long, lovely, newsy, satisfying letters that make me feel like she just sat down and had coffee with me. And I will, if she's lucky, write back a paragraph or two. Just the basics. A brief response to specific questions, usually. A quick update on how the boys are doing.

For another example, my ability to disconnect from friends and not even realize that two months have passed since I've seen a person or even necessarily talked to that person on the phone. I just continue to go on through my life, pushing away any sense of missing a connection. If she really wants to talk to me or see me, she'll call me, right?

I have to wonder, too, if I'm capable of loving a man in a way that means forever, 'til death do us part. I haven't done so well so far. And recently I've realized that it's one thing to say I love someone: it's another to give him my heart. Fully, completely, with all the tremendous risk that comes from placing that most delicate part of Self in someone else's hands. I don't think I've ever done that. I'm not sure what it takes to do so, or whether that strength, that willingness to risk so much, is even in me.

Most sobering is the realization that as much as I love my children, there's still a part of me I withhold from them, too. You see, they're going to grow up. And they may not like me very much some day. They may not call. They may not talk to me. They may resent me for choices I've made and have yet to make. They may move far, far away and only come home for the occasional holiday. I will lose them. One way or another, I will lose them: to jobs, to wives, to time.

So I shield a part of myself off from the world. Because if I give myself fully, then every time someone leaves, every time someone walks away or vanishes or drifts off or outright rejects me, there's a piece of my heart that goes with them. And I'm not sure there would be enough left of me to survive.

Just So You Know, I Wasn't Actually Here the Last Five Days. I Scheduled That Series of Thanksgiving Poems to Post so You Wouldn't Feel Lonely and Abandoned. You're Welcome. And Now: What I Was Really Doing!

Not to shock you or anything, but...this post will not be a poem.

I know.

You're welcome. Or I'm sorry. Depending on your position on poetry, whether mine or in general. I tend to get the fewest comments on my poetry posts, and I just sigh and call you all barbarians.

Unless you're just so overwhelmed and touched (in a good way, peoples!) that you're speechless, in which case I bow to your excellent literary taste.

Just sayin'.

Anywho. Did you know this last weekend was Thanksgiving weekend? Yes, really! I know for some of my international readers this may have passed you by. Unless you are expatriots, American transplants living off yonder in the far reaches of the world, in which case you may have actually celebrated Thanksgiving. Possibly without turkey. I know my parents did, only they ate chicken. Turkeys are not native to West Africa, much like tigers, much to my idiots students' surprise.

Here in the wilds suburbs of Michigan, we celebrate Thanksgiving by forcing massive amounts of food down our throats until we sit around stoned singing the Tryptophan Blues and reminiscing about Days of Yore. I got to do this twice: once earlier in the day with my kidlets, my brother, and some relatives from my mother's side of the family (where I hit up the appetizers); and then later in the evening with Joe, his mom, and some other family members (which is where I got my turkey fix).

It was a bit odd, at my age and whatnot, being the Girlfriend Coming Home For Dinner and all. I agonized over a hostess gift a bit more than I should, tweeting and emailing and IMing various peeps for ideas. Wine was out (Joe's mom is a non-drinker), flowers seemed a bit trite, decor was too personal and risky. So I ended up baking Spicy Oatmeal Raisin Cookies and Big Soft Ginger Cookies, placing them ohsocarefully in a cookie tin, and taking them as my hostess gift/contribution. As one blogger friend/tweep tweeted to me, Your idea is nice. It says "I am a nice girl." *

Might as well create that illusion while I can. Get in while the getting is good, right?

The cookies went over well, Joe's stepfather engaged me in conversation about Africa (he's been on safari in Kenya, as have I--besides the whole growing up on the other side of the continent thing), Joe's mother engaged me in conversation about children and divorce and teaching and yeah I think she may have been pumping me gently, what about it?, Joe's daughter and I sat next to each other and started easing out of the whole awkwardness thing, I managed to eat the delicious meal without unbuttoning my jeans...Joe's mom even hugged me goodbye and said she hoped to see more of me.

Yeah. I think I may have passed the test.

That one, at any rate.

Then there was a long, relaxing weekend in which I played the role of Parts Girl for Joe** and took a road trip up north and back in a day and bought a warm coat for winter and generally did nothing of enormous strain or importance. I had Monday off as a comp day for Parent Teacher conferences, so it was a true five-day weekend. Life is hard.

And today? Today it's back to reality. Shakespeare, Transcendentalism, and the Trojan War. Not to mention snarky kids who are already asking how long until Winter Break.

Eighteen days, people. Eighteen days.

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*I could be wrong, but there may have been just a trace of gentle snark there. Just a trace. Considering we then tweeted about the importance of fooling the boyfriend's parents while you still can, I think I may be right about this.

**This is NOT a dirty reference or euphemism. Shame on you for even thinking something like that. I was just running to the parts stores to pick up parts for Joe while he fixed cars. They're getting to know me there. The one guy, Gene, who owns the Napa store, he likes me already. He may have also made some congratulatory comment to Joe about sending a cutie down to pick up parts. I did notice that the guys behind the counter there seemed very eager to help me out. *ahem*

thanksgiving: travelling

long road stretches before
and behind
wintry trees flash by
spare yet regal in their barrenness
promise of life asleep within
glimpses of homes with spiraling smoke
speak family and friendship
warmth by the hearth
and on by fields now stripped
furrowed and naked
sleeping until spring brings seed
and warmth anew

a voice whispers and i turn
twist the dial to give sound
to its potent melody
hum then break into song
he sings too
if somewhat off tune
and we grin at memories of childhood
raised on this

my hand rests in his
as always
cradled in rough warmth
i shift and bend toward him
to see his face in profile
against the blur of passing land
and content
rest my head against the seat
while miles and hours stream by

thanksgiving: vicarious

sharp scent
like pencil shavings
and childhood
slick plasticked cover sliding
under fingertips until
creamy pages crease
at a touch and bend
spilling inky thoughts into my mind
dreams of other worlds
other lives
chasing each other in mad riot
as i gulp thirstily
never quenching or filling
enough
for there is always another
and i reach again
raise this tree reborn and sniff
deep
of sharp scent
like pencil shavings
and happiness

thanksgiving: together

i turned the corner
and saw his form
silhouetted against the light
streaming from the barn

solid body
hunched for a moment
to duck under the descending door
and then he moved toward me
as i moved toward him

my pace quickened to match his
we met
melded a long moment
i rested my head on his shoulder
content
at last
to be there in his arms

thanksgiving: dawn

mine was a long-lived Dark
coming out into Light was not easy
nor simple
and still i see the shadows
creeping in corners of my restless mind

Time is an uneasy ally
i do not trust too easily
for she can scar as well as heal
and i bear the marks
born of her fickle friendship

yet when i look
at what lies before me
the obstacles and pitfalls
the fear of the unknown
i do not hide my face as once
i did

for i am earning free from chains
too long wrapped about me
bonds three decades in making
woven and forged in fear and pain
thus here lies my truth

whatever lies ahead
is worth living
come what may

and the shadows cannot last
in the light of a brand new day

thanksgiving: them

they sneak up on me
these kisses
these soft round arms clasping my neck
lisped words of
i love you mama
or i want a snuggle
or i'm thankful for you mama
and i melt

it's a hard road sometimes
when mothering seems more than i can bear
when the beginning and what followed
scarred parts of my parenting heart

but when they laugh
and when they sing
and when they dance
and when they sneak their way
past all my defenses
all i can do is look at them
and say

thank you
thank you

and that is enough